Fluke
by Your Father
Summary: Not falling in love with your best friend is a lot easier said than done. Style, what else.


_**i am so lazy that i'm doing this to quench my urge instead of updating world war four or california gurls do you guys love me yes you completely do kisses xoxo**_

**also this is just short cause it needed to be cut here bear with me y/y  
>pretend its like a prologue because i am totally that c00l and authorly<strong>

* * *

><p><em>(21:34) <em>_**Stan: **__dude help sos_

This is what Kyle wakes up to- that strange, unwelcome noise emitting from his piece-of-shit phone, the chain of beeping melody that indicates either Stan needs him or someone's been playing some sick joke. Calls are rare, but texts are rarer, if Stan texts him it's because he's too far away to come knocking at Kyle's door, or tapping on his window, or likeness. The point was: nobody texts Kyle.

And when he reaches from his bed to get his hand around his chunky out-of-date rectangle to find _dude help sos _blinding his vision, he assumes yes, something is wrong.

_(21:36) __**Kyle: **__Dude what? Are you hurt? _

_(21:37) __**Stan: **__non o its wnedy kyle what did i do_

He's about this close to resuming his nap, because they've had _this scenario _and _this discussion_ happen too many times to count and he's quite frankly done with the tiptoeing around that has gone on with Wendy for the past nine fucking years, and all it ever leads to is Stan wheeling his way back into emotional breakdown and burrowing in a blanket cocoon and trying to squeeze the answers out of Kyle as to _why doesn't she love him_. For christ's sake, they were seventeen.

And it always goes down like this, Kyle meticulously picks up the pieces of post-Wendy Stan, only to get the panicky _I crawled back to her_ text a few weeks later. It's like getting a new, too fucking complicated puzzle every month that you don't want to put the effort into ever completing, but you do it, for the rewarding accomplishment and the pretty picture at the end. Happy Stan was a rather pretty picture, actually.

_(21:40) __**Kyle: **__Fuck, come on. I was sleeping. _

_(21:41) __**Stan: **__its 9pm yuo dork_

_(21:42) __**Kyle: **__What? I don't have any chicks to stumble back to._

_(21:43) __**Stan: **__klye this is not a joke i fcuked her_

_(21:44) __**Kyle: **__What the fuck why_

It only slips Kyle's mind to add punctuation when he's got that part of his brain blurred away with fury- not unusual, actually, Kyle's temper wasn't something you flippantly tested. Kyle's temper was an active volcano you were fucking ridiculous for attempting to live near.

_(21:45) __**Stan: **__i dnot know help me_

_(21:46) __**Kyle: **__I don't have time for this I really don't_

_(21:48) __**Stan: **__dont go_

Kyle's still tired, he still just wants to crawl back into bed and be well-rested in the morning and not have to look at Stan knowing what he fucking gave away and not getting this god damn headache he would always get whenever Stan tested the Wendy waters and Kyle wasn't sure if it was spurred by jealousy or anger but either way it fucking _irked_ him and made him feel dirty, uncomfortable, and he just wants to go back to elementary school before they ever had to deal with this bullshit and before he ever had to feel like Stan was taking a power drill to his gut.

And that's just what his two little pathetic fucking words did to him, they hit him right in the stomach, right where it _sinks_ and makes him feel guilty for this guy who's been protecting him his whole life and maybe he can return the favor by repairing the patchwork quilt of a man he's become, but that was much easier said that done.

_(21:51) __**Stan: **__plaese_

_(21:53) __**Kyle: **__What do you want me to do? Congratulations, you're a man._

_(21:54) __**Stan: **__wasnt my fault_

_(21:55) __**Kyle: **__What the fuck, how did you accidentally thrust into her_

_(21:58) __**Stan: **__cna i come over_

_(22:00) __**Kyle: **__I need to sleep._

_(22:02) __**Stan: **__i need yuo_

Kyle should have been expecting the fucking "_I need you" _card, Stan's little mind trick that gets him to bend to his every will and has, in fact, since they were just kids. Because, fuck, yeah, he did need him. Beyond all the screwing around and newly screwing around in the literal sense, Stan needed Kyle, and Kyle couldn't even pretend he didn't know that.

_(22:05) __**Kyle: **__Whatever, fine_

_(22:08) __**Stan: **__ok thank you_

Kyle groans against his arms, his body telling him to forget about all this and just sleep sleep _sleep_ but his heart wants to be there for Stan, it really does, because leaving him in this risky condition alone was almost being a worse friend than it would to reveal his pitiful lust for Stan's dick. And his mind starts drifting there, his head getting fuzzy, fading into surreal mode and hearing Stan's voice hum like the ocean within his drowsy mind.

And he must have fallen asleep within the time frame it took Stan to get from Wendy's house or wherever the fuck he was to soft, resounding knocking at his window—sad, slow knocking, that kind of steady knock that calls for you and pleads for you without any accompaniments. Kyle doesn't want to open his eyes, he doesn't want to look over at that mess of a boy perched on the windowsill but he _does_ and he sits up and looks right at him, pressed against the glass like some kitten locked out in the cold.

Kyle gets out of bed with a strand of disapproving mumbles to follow, realizing exactly how much Stan can get him to do, and this is coming from Kyle, _stubborn_ Kyle, Kyle that you don't fuck around with or get to bend backwards without getting a word or three snapped at you.

But he unlatches his window and slides the glass open, allowing Stan to lean out onto Kyle and feel the cold late-winter wind from outside and the chill of Stan's cheek against his neck, letting Stan slump helplessly against him. He gives away more and more of his body weight, letting the warmth of Kyle's room and Kyle's neck and _Kyle _seep through him and soon he's got him stumbling for his bed before they can end up crashing against the ground—and when Kyle hits hit and his knees buckle and Stan snuggles closer against that warm, warm crevice Kyle swears he hears him mumble a soft "good."

He lets Stan get away with this, however secretly torturous his touch may be, because Stan was generally a pretty physical person, especially with Kyle. Stan needs that strong sense of security in times like these, where he knows to what degree he has momentously fucked up and just wants to bury himself in the warmth of their best-friends-who-touch-heterosexually sanctuary.

Sexuality was actually something Kyle preferred to swerve away from discussing, because if just because he liked the way Stan fit against him or gripped him or smelled or _fuck_, smiled at him sometimes, if that made him gay, he most certainly was not. Kyle just really admired his best friend, he'd always been his hero, his personal Superman that beamed over him with his ocean eyes and saved his life and risked his own just, 'cause. Because somehow it was written in stone that, regardless of whatever status he and Wendy were at, Stan was undoubtedly born for Kyle. Whatever that entailed, he was born to fill that hollow part of him, read his mind with fucking best friend telekinesis and adapt to whatever Kyle wanted him to be.

On second thought, Kyle was a little bit gay.

He reaches this conclusion when his dick stirs upon Stan's warm breath out of his cold lips heating Kyle's neck like his personal vent, when he can feel the little trembles in each exhale and feeling like, maybe he's partially complete for a second, maybe he and Stan could conquer the world if they tried.

"Can I ask details?" Kyle prompts, that awkward silence starting to emerge and terrify him.

"Guh," is something alike to the sound Stan vibrates against Kyle's neck, and Kyle can't tell if he wants to push him off or not. "Complicated."

"It's still unclear to me, I guess," Kyle continues, at a volume just above a whisper so his voice is audible, trying so fucking hard not to be passive-aggressive. "Like, why you fucked her. If. I don't know."

"It was all her," he cracks, his intonation descending like someone hammered and hammered at it. "She does this thing, like, she'll be sitting on my l-lap or something and start rolling back, or something. And usually that meant no more than like, fingering, I don't know, that was as far as we ever got."

Kyle doesn't want to hear any more, but doesn't ask him to stop.

"But she like, kept going, a-and then we were kissing and I was on top of her and she's asking me if I have protection and then it hits me that she wanted it now and I did have stuff on me but, fuck, dude, I wasn't ready. At all," he's shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, on the verge of tears. "A-and I don't know, I didn't want to back out then, you know? Like, how lame would that be. So."

"So," Kyle drones, teeth clenching. "You fucked her. Cool."

"T-that's the thing, dude. I, like. Cried. It was so lame, I'm just crying on her and too fucking scared to get any deeper, I got my head in—"

"O-okay, okay, I get it, don't," Kyle stops him not only in fear of the pain of hearing Wendy's interaction with Stan's dick, but in fear of Stan actually talking to Kyle about his dick.

"Basically, she has more balls than _I_ do, and I-I just went home because it was fucking… mortifying, man. What guy doesn't want to be in his girlfriend, I don't even know," he groans again, snuggling back into Kyle's neck crevice, making Kyle forget to be mad for a little bit.

"Well, uh," Kyle sighs. "I don't really know how to help. Don't have too much experience in any of these departments."

"Whatever, dude. I don't need help, just. Don't move," Stan writhes against him, trying to get comfortable again, eventually splaying his arm over Kyle's chest, making the entire scenario significantly gayer. Kyle only makes it worse by entwining their bodies into some impossible crisscross.

After a few minutes, when Kyle's about to knock out, Stan comes out with, "I don't know if I'm still a virgin or not."

"I-I don't know, let's just not talk about it, I'm um, tired," Kyle whines, trying to get naked Stan sobbing and pinning down Wendy out of his thought circulation.

"Sorry," Stan squeaks, exhaling the tension away, starting to fall asleep on Kyle for the first time in months, and Kyle can't wait to wake up to Stan's face, his touch, his anything.

Note to self: in love.


End file.
